‘Shit. OK. We lost. Give Daisy what she wants.’
‘But Joe? Hackle said…’
‘Never mind that. Give it up.’
Reluctantly, a blood-stained handkerchief was handed over a table.
At the Piccadilly winner’s enclosure, a gang of hopefuls were gathered. Some of them were of the rightful fifty-nine winners of a half-prize, but most of the tribe were just voyeurs of the prize-giving, hoping to make a mugging. That’s why the burgercops were standing guard, fully loaded, on the pay-out orifice.
Even as Eddie Irwell berated Celia for giving away the winning bone. ‘How the fuck could you?’ he cried. That was our ticket out of the mess.’
‘I was scared, Eddie. Anyway, you’d only spend it on burgers and booze.’
‘That is most unfair.’
‘We can buy another bone, can’t we?’
‘There she blows,’ said Eddie. ‘Game over.’
The siren sounded all over the city as midnight struck. Daisy’s half-a-bone on the table, faded from a ripe five to a cold and heartless cream for the uncollected.
‘Game over,’ said Benny.
‘Can I go now, please?’ asked Daisy.
Benny opened the booth door, Daisy slipped away.
‘Fucking bastard dominoes,’ said Joe. ‘One of these days…’
‘One of these days, what?’ dared Benny.
‘I’m gonna break these bones in two!’
‘Will you let me join now, Joe?’ asked Jaz. ‘The Black Math club? Haven’t I earned it yet? Bringing you a half-bone? I can help.’
‘Fuck off! OK!’
‘Yes, Joe. Right away, Joe. OK, Joe. So you won’t be wanting this, then?’ He was waving a test tube around, inside which some kind of purple, sluggish grease moved slowly.
‘What the fuck’s that?’ asked Benny.
‘Let me explain.’ Jazir smiled.
Play to win
Game 43
Bone Day. Pippy old Dotchester, game 43. Rabid natives, making wild honey to the televert, with slippy brains as the chimes came floating, a fog of numbers. A smoke of dominoes, forever changing their leopardness. On wings of breath, the blurbflies, dreaming in download. Singing the streets, alive with libido.
Mating on the wing, biting to propagate.
Play to win! Play to win!
And all over the city that sticky, wet Friday, three hours from clampdown, surrounded by burgerwrap and porno-stain, there was only one big, happy horde of punter-bone. One big mass of gamble, creeping towards nine o’clock, clacking its tiny chance. Garage slab, gravestone, wedding bed. Watching the dots pulsate.
It’s domino time! Dribbling domino time!
Dom, dom, dom, dom, domino time! —Blurbflies
As the players sacrificed some dumb animals to the pagan gods of chance. And so many adverts now clogged up the streets, it was like living in blurb soup.
Mister Million had deemed it so. Play to win! Play to win!
A pair of flies, banging against a window in Rusholme. The Golden Samosa, upstairs flat. Focus. Inside…
Daisy with her tiny handful of no luck. Yeah, no luck. She hadn’t bought this week. Her first time ever of not playing. Her assignments were suffering, leaving much to be desired. ‘Much to be desired,’ Max Hackle had written.
Pitch your chances, make a wish,
Dream a dream and make for bliss.
Lady Luck, come kissy kiss kiss! —Blurbflies
No thanks, said Daisy. She returned to her work. This was her real life; numbers, probabilities and why life was a game with no winners. If the other players would only realize this, there would be no more money wasted, no more killings. Just to satisfy herself, she did a quick calculation of exactly how much money could be saved, if nobody played at all.
OK, fine words, fine numbers, but why then did she have the television on, and why couldn’t she stop turning to see the outcome?
To gloat, her answer would be, if Jazir was there.
And that was another reason for her going bone-free; she hadn’t seen her friend since last Saturday’s dance. That Joe Crocus and his pathetic hangers-on, that Black Math crowd; they were all madmen, obsessed with trifles. Daisy wasn’t obsessed, she wasn’t. Just another little look at the television, that’s all.
Tommy Tumbler was stirring the city into a frenzy and Jazir still wasn’t here. She was missing him. Despite his stupid hat and glasses, and his garlic and his stolen kiss, she was missing him.
For Jazir, take another blurbflight down from Rusholme, along the Wilmslow Road for a mile or two, until reaching West Didsbury. Float over the cemetery. You’re very near home, little blurbfly, but don’t get excited; it’s not the Hive of Chances you’re aiming for, your shift isn’t over yet. Instead, turn right. Barlow Moor Road, that’s the one. See the house, the third one along, with the upstairs light, the faint flickering light. OK, that’s your target. Fly to the window. Focus. Inside…